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by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Retail, Cousin Incest, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fingon can move, but Maedhros should just stay in Toys.





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephers/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ephers’ “the three finwion firsts [...] for the prompt "retail"” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For the most part, hardware is the dullest section to have—its purchases are large but rare, and it isn’t prone to disarray nearly so much as Cosmetics or Toys. Fingon spends much of his shift merely strolling up and down his isles, offering to help any stray customers he finds. When the phone mounted on the back wall rings, Fingon is actually glad to answer it—he could use a price check just for something to _do_.

Instead of any cashier’s, Finrod’s voice is on the other end, pleading hopefully, _“Do you think you could give me a hand? A pack of Dwarven children just came through, and they undid my entire morning’s work.”_

Though folding clothes is really no better than facing isles, Fingon agrees, “Sure. I’ll be right there.” He knows he’s _supposed_ to stay in his section, but there are exceptions, and mass disarray is one of them—after all, if their uncle should come in for an inspection, a few messy tables could easily get Finrod fired. 

Finrod is relatively easy to find; Apparel makes up the center of the store, and there’s now a trail of pint-sized clothes weaving through it. Finrod stands at the desk in front of the changing rooms, a round booth with seven rooms around the semicircle walls. Finrod’s desk is entirely buried, and the stress is all over his normally-collected features—Finrod is easily the most pleasant person Fingon’s ever known, and it’s almost comical to see him frantically sorting tops from bottoms. 

Blowing a few blond strands out of his eyes, Finrod looks helplessly up. The tight bun atop his head has fallen half undone, the blue shirt of his uniform rolled up at the sleeves. When he sees Fingon, he smiles, and sighs in a lilting half-tease, half-swoon, “My hero.”

Chuckling fondly, Fingon steps in beside him. Two large piles of clothes are already laden in shopping carts, likely gathered up by Finrod to be sorted here, and Fingon takes the emptier of the two back to catch whatever was missed. It doesn’t take him that far from Finrod, which proves fortunate when Finrod begins to hum. It’s far quieter than the ever-present voice of the radio, but it’s still a nice diversion. Fingon does his best to tune out the Dearon song they’ve played to death and focus in on Finrod’s soothing melody, until it seems Finrod’s stress has utterly evaporated. 

By the time Fingon returns to the desk with the department floor clean, Finrod is smiling, and he gestures down at the laced blouse draped over his desk, the corset back visible through the sheer front. Fingon has no idea what occasion such a fashion statement is meant for, but Finrod muses, “Don’t you think this would look good on Maedhros? I find he looks particularly handsome in burgundy.”

“He looks handsome in anything,” Fingon counters, coming over to finger the soft fabric. “But you’ll never hear me argue him out of lace.”

Finrod gives a little laugh, and Fingon lifts the shirt to eye it properly, now picturing it stretched across Maedhros’ toned chest, clinging to his taut middle and showing his dark nipples through it, the back tied tight enough to make his breath come hard. His copper hair would stand out vividly against it, his many freckles a delight to spy beneath the lace. The more Fingon looks at it, the more he finds it difficult to banish Maedhros from his mind, until he finds himself headed for the change rooms and picking the phone ofr the hook.

Finrod asks, “What are you doing?” But Fingon lifts a hand, because he’s already dialed the toy section.

Maedhros’ deep voice answers, _“Hello.”_

“We found a new outfit for you,” Fingon says, which should tell Finrod who he’s called. “We’ll put it in the Apparel desk—pick it up after your shift, okay?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other side, during which Maedhros is probably debating a joke about Fingon acting as his mother, but then Maedhros says, _“How about I come try it on now? I’m bored to death here.”_

“Sounds dreadfully inappropriate,” Fingon counters, even knowing that none of the sons of Fëanor have ever cared much for rules. He isn’t particularly surprised when Maedhros snorts.

_“You’re not off at the same time as me. Are you really telling me you don’t want to actually see how I look in it? Maybe it’ll be hideous and you’ll want to take it right off.”_

“ _I’ll_ want to?”

_“Well, we both know how good you are at removing my clothing, even when I’ve got your hands tied behind your back and you have to use your mouth.”_

Fingon instantly regrets calling, because the reminder of last night’s activities is still too vibrant in his mind. To Maedhros, he drawls a steady, “Down, boy.” And then hangs up the phone.

Finrod, now back to folding, simply shakes his head. He probably got the gist of the conversation. Fingon moves to join him. Fingon’s sure Maedhros will show up soon anyway, and then they’ll probably fall into chattering for the rest of his shift, and not a thing will get done.

Sure enough, Maedhros is there in only a few minutes, grinning at both of them. Without even asking if he came to try it, Finrod holds up the shirt, comparing it mid-air to Maedhros’ form, and Maedhros helpfully steps up against it. It looks good against his sun-kissed skin, but most things do. His bright hair flows freely down his shoulders, though most of their peers choose to tie it up or braid it as Fingon’s, and it goes well with the colour. Maedhros collects it from Finrod’s arms and announces, “Don’t worry, I’ll spare your imaginations the extra work.”

Before either can protest, Maedhros has disappeared into the changing rooms with it, though he doesn’t think either of them would’ve protested anyway. Finrod just shakes his head with a little sigh, then decides, “I suppose I should go in to help him—he won’t be able to do up the back by himself.”

“Why do you get to?” Fingon asks, just as keen to get Maedhros shirtless as Finrod must be.

“Department prerogative,” Finrod answers, then adds, “and I think there’s a greater chance that if _you_ go in, he won’t come out with any clothes at all.”

Fingon laughs but concedes that point; though he and Finrod are generally better behaved than Maedhros, Finrod is the true angel. He leaves the sweater he’d been folding to follow after Maedhros, and Fingon takes over the desk, starting in on his mountain of rumpled clothes.

For a few minutes, he waits in silence, looking forward to their reemergence, but it doesn’t come, and then he hears a strangled gasp wafting out the entrance. He has some idea what’s happened and immediately abandons his work in favour of hunting his cousins down.

The farther room is the only one that’s occupied, and the door isn’t fastened shut—when he splays his hand against it, it swings inwards. He hears Maedhros grunt and slips his way inside, shutting the door again with some effort; these rooms were never meant to house three people at once.

Finrod, at least, is pinned tight against the mirror, flattened under Maedhros’ strong body, his hair pulled loose and his belt hanging out of the hoops of his pants. Dilated and flushed, Finrod mutters, “Oops.” And Maedhros has the gall to grin, his fingers still tight in Finrod’s slender hips. 

The saving grace is that Maedhros _does_ look delectable in the shirt, though the back isn’t yet laced up—evidently, Finrod was too distracted by _other_ things. Between the two of them, it’s hard to pick who to go to first, but simply because he blames Maedhros, Fingon chooses Finrod. He bends forward to brush his mouth over Fingon’s wet lips and can tell that Maedhros has been in them. Finrod opens, mewling, and even reaches an arm around Fingon’s shoulders to pull him close, though Fingon is chaste and quick. 

He pulls away after to scold Maedhros: “I told you to wait until after work.”

“And make you wait for this?” Maedhros teases, looking every bit as irresistible as Finrod. Fingon can’t help himself; he gives Maedhros a kiss too, taking the chance to arch forward into Maedhros’ thinly-clad chest, but he dodges back before Maedhros has too much fun. 

Fingon mutters, “You’ll have to buy that now.”

“I plan to,” Maedhros promises. He’s never passed up anything that Fingon promoted to him.

Beyond the door, the phone rings, and the double beep rules out in-store calls to signal a redirected customer. Finrod groans, but he does go for it, struggling to fix his pants and squeeze between them to escape the cramped space. Fingon opens the door to help, which sandwiches Maedhros against the wall again. On the second ring of the phone, Finrod pauses to say, “Don’t have all the fun without me,” and then he rushes off to catch it before it makes a third.

Maedhros shrugs and quips, “Two can have just as much fun.”

But Fingon slaps him playfully on the arm and detangles himself. He drags Maedhros out with him by a finger in Maedhros’ belt loop, knowing that if he’s ever to survive this shift, Maedhros must be banished back to Toys.


End file.
